LADY BAZELHURST was right. Penelope was making her way through the blackest of nights toward the home of Randolph Shaw. In deciding upon this step, after long deliberation, she had said to herself: “Randolph Shaw is the only real man I 've seen since coming to the mountains. I can trust him to help me to-night.”
It was fully three miles to Shaw's place, most of the way over the narrow valley road. She knew she would encounter but few tortuous places. The last half-mile, however, was steep, rugged, and unfamiliar to her. She had ventured no nearer to his home than Renwood's deserted cottage, lying above and to the south of the road, almost at the base of the long hill on whose side Shaw had built his big home. To climb that hill was no easy task in daylight; at midnight, with the stars obscured by clouds and tree-tops, there was something perilously uncertain in the prospect.
Only the knowledge that patience and courage eventually would bring her to the end made the journey possible. Time would lead her to the haven; care would make the road a friend; a stout heart was her best ally. Strength of limb and strength of purpose she had, in use and in reserve. No power could have made her turn back willingly. Her anxious eyes were set ahead in the blackness; her runaway feet were eager in obedience to her will.
“Why couldn't I have put it off until morning?” she was saying to herself as she passed down the gravelled drive and advanced to meet the wall of trees that frowned blackly in her face. “What will he think? What will he say? Oh, he'll think I'm such a silly, romantic fool. No, he won't. He'll understand. He'll help me on to Platts-burg to-morrow. But will he think I've done this for effect? Won't he think I'm actually throwing myself at his head? No, I can't turn back. I'd rather die than go back to that house. It won't matter what he thinks; I'll be away from all of it tomorrow. I'll be out of his life and I won't care what he thinks. England! Goodness, what's that?” She had turned a bend in the drive and just ahead there was a light. A sigh of relief followed the question. It came from the lantern which hung to a stake in the road where the new stone gate-posts were being built by workmen from town. Bazelhurst Villa was a quarter of a mile, through the park, behind her; the forest was ahead.
At the gate she stopped between the half-finished stone posts and looked ahead with the first shiver of dismay. Her limbs seemed ready to collapse. The flush of anger and excitement left her face; a white, desolate look came in its stead. Her eyes grew wide and she blinked her lashes with an awed uncertainty that boded ill for the stability of her adventure. An owl hooted in mournful cadence close by and she felt that her hair was going straight on end. The tense fingers of one hand gripped the handle of the travelling-bag while the other went spasmodically to her heart.
“Oh!” she gasped, moving over quickly to the stake on which the lantern hung. The wind was rushing through the tree-tops with increased fervour; the air was cool and wet with the signs of rain; a swirl of dust flew up into her face; the swish of leaves sounded like the splashing of water in the air. Holding her heart for minutes, she at last regained some of the lost composure. A hysterical laugh fell from her lips. “What a goose! It was an owl and I've heard hundreds of them up here. Still, theydosound different outside of one's own room. It's going to rain. What wretched luck! Dear me, I can't stand here all night. How black it is ahead there. Oooh! Really, now, it does seem a bit terrifying. If I only had a lantern it would n't be so—” her gaze fell upon the labourers' lantern that clattered aimlessly, uselessly against the stake. An instant later she had jerked it from its fastenings with a cry of joy. “I'll send it back when they go for my trunks. What luck!”
Without a second's hesitation she started off briskly into the woodland road, striding along with the splendid swing of the healthy Englishwoman who has not been trained to dawdle. Her walking-skirt gave free play to her limbs; she was far past the well-known “line in the road” before she paused to take a full breath and to recapitulate.
Her heart beat faster and the sudden glow in her cheek was not from the exercise. Somehow, out there alone in the world, the most amazing feeling of tenderness sped on ahead to Randolph Shaw. She tried to put it from her, but it grew and grew. Then she blushed deep within herself and her eyes grew sweet with the memory of those stolen, reprehensible hours along the frontier. Something within her breast cried out for those shining, gone-by moments, something seemed to close down on her throat, something flooded her eyes with a softness that rolled up from her entire being. Their line! Their insurmountable barrier! An absurd yet ineffable longing to fall down and kiss that line came over her with compelling force.
Her head grew light with the thought of those moments when their horses stood with muzzles together as if kissing by proxy—the flush grew deeper, though her blood went cold and she trembled.
A pitiful confusion seized her, an inexplicable timidity crept into her heart, replacing the bold assurance that had been recklessly carrying her on to him. It was as though some one had whispered the truth into her ear and she was beginning to believe.
From that moment her courage began to fail. The glow from her lantern was a menace instead of a help. A sweet timorousness enveloped her and something tingled—she knew not what.
Spattering raindrops whizzed in her face, ominous forerunners from the inky sky. The wind was whistling with shrill glee in the tree-tops and the tree-tops tried to flee before it. A mile and a half lay between her and the big cottage on the hillside—the most arduous part of the journey by far. She walked and ran as though pursued, scudding over the road with a swiftness that would have amazed another, but which seemed the essence of slowness to her. Thoughts of robbers, tramps, wild beasts, assailed her with intermittent terrors, but all served to diminish the feeling of shyness that had been interfering with her determination.
Past Renwood's cottage she sped, shuddering as she recognized the stone steps and path that ran up the hillside to the haunted house. Ghosts, witches, hobgoblins fell into the procession of pursuers, cheered on by the shrieking wind that grew more noisome as her feet carried her higher up the mountain. Now she was on new ground. She had never before explored so far as this. The hill was steep and the road had black abysses out beyond its edges....
She was breathless, half dead from fatigue and terror when at last her feet stumbled up the broad steps leading to his porch. Trembling, she sank into the rustic bench that stood against the wall. The lantern clattered to her feet, and the bag with her jewels, her letter of credit, and her curling irons slid to the floor behind the bench. Here was his home! What cared she for the storm?
Even as she lay there gasping for breath, her eyes on the shadowy moon that was breaking its way through the clouds, three men raced from the stables at Bazelhurst Villa bent on finding the mad young person who had fled the place. Scarcely knowing what direction he took, Lord Bazelhurst led the way, followed by the duke and the count, all of them supplied with carriage lamps, which, at any other time, would have been sickening in their obtrusiveness. Except for Lady Evelyn, the rest of the house slept the sleep of ease.
Gradually Penelope recovered from the effects of the mad race up the hill. The sputtering flame in the lantern called her into action. Clutching it from the floor of the porch, she softly began a tour of inspection, first looking at her watch to find that it was the unholy hour of two! Had some one yelled boo! she would have swooned, so tense was every nerve. Now that she was here, what was she to do? Her heart came to her mouth, her hand shook, but not with fear; a nervous smile tried to wreak disaster to the concern in her eyes.
The house was dark and still. No one was stirring. The porch was littered with rugs and cushions, while on a small table near the end stood a decanter, a siphon, and two glasses. Two? He had said he was alone except for the housekeeper and the servants. A visitor, then. This was not what she had expected. Her heart sank. It would be hard to face the master of the house, but—a stranger? Cigarette stubs met her bewildered, troubled gaze—many of them. Deduction was easy out there in the lonely night. It was easy to see that Shaw and his companion sat up so late that the servants had gone to bed.
Distractedly she looked about for means of shelter on the porch until daylight could abet her in the flight to the village beyond.
The storm was sure to come at no far distant time. She knew and feared the violence of the mountain rains.
“By all that's holy,” came in a man's voice, low-toned and uncertain; “itisa dream, after all!”
She turned like a flash, with a startled exclamation and an instinctive movement as if to shield herself from unbidden gaze. Her lips parted and her heart pounded like a hammer. Standing in the doorway was Randolph Shaw, his figure looming up like monstrous, wavering genie in the uncertain light from the shaking lantern. His right hand was to his brow and his eyes were wide with incredulous joy. She noticed that the left sleeve of his dinner jacket hung limp, and that the arm was in a white sling beneath.
“Is it really you?” he cried, his hand going instinctively to his watch-pocket as if doubting that it was night instead of morning.
“I've—I 've run away from them,” she stammered. “It's two o'clock—don't look! Oh, I'm so sorry now—why did I—”
“You ran away?” he exclaimed, coming toward her. “Oh, it can't be a dream. You are there, aren't you?” She was a pitiable object as she stood there, powerless to retreat, shaking like a leaf. He took her by the shoulder. “Yes—it is. Good Lord, what does it mean? What has happened? How did you come here? Are you alone?”
“Utterly, miserably alone. Oh, Mr. Shaw!” she cried despairingly. “Youwillunderstand, won't you?”
“Never! Never as long as I live. It is beyond comprehension. The wonderful part of it all is that I was sitting in there dreaming of you—yes, I was. I heard some one out here, investigated and found you—you, of all people in the world. And I was dreaming that I held you in my arms. Yes, I was! I was dreaming it—”
“Mr. Shaw! You should n't—”
“And I awoke to find you—not in my arms, not in Bazelhurst Villa, but here—here on my porch.”
“Like a thief in the night,” she murmured. “Whatdoyou think of me?”
“Shall I tell you—really?” he cried. The light in his eyes drove her back a step or two, panic in her heart.
“N—no, no—not now!” she gasped, but a great wave of exaltation swept through her being. He turned and walked away, too dazed to speak. Without knowing it, she followed with hesitating steps. At the edge of the porch he paused and looked into the darkness.
“By Jove, Imustbe dreaming,” she heard him mutter.
“No, you are not,” she declared desperately. “Iamhere. I ask your protection for the night. I am going away—to England—to-morrow. I could n't stay there—I just could n't. I'm sorry I came here—I'm—”
“Thank heaven, youdidcome,” he exclaimed, turning to her joyously. “You are like a fairy—the fairy princess come true. It's unbelievable! But—but what was it you said about England?” he concluded, suddenly sober.
“I am go—going home. There's no place else. I can't live with her,” she said, a bit tremulously.
“To England? At once? Your father—will he—?”
“My father? I have no father. Oh!” with a sudden start Her eyes met his in a helpless stare. “I never thought. My home was at Bazelhurst Castle—their home. I can't go there. Good heavens, what am I to do?”
A long time afterward she recalled his exultant exclamation, checked at its outset,—recalled it with a perfect sense of understanding. With rare good taste he subdued whatever it was that might have struggled for expression and simply extended his right hand to relieve her of the lantern.
“We never have been enemies, Miss Drake,” he said, controlling his voice admirably. “But had we been so up to this very instant, I am sure I 'd surrender now. I don't know what has happened at the Villa. It does n't matter. You are here to ask my protection and my help. I am at your service, my home is yours, my right hand also. You are tired and wet and—nervous. Won't you come inside? I 'll get a light in a jiffy and Mrs. Ulrich, my housekeeper, shall be with you as soon as I can rout her out. Come in, please.” She held back doubtfully, a troubled, uncertain look in her eyes.
“Youwillunderstand, won't you?” she asked simply.
“And no questions asked,” he said from the doorway. Still she held back, her gaze going involuntarily to the glasses on the table. He interpreted the look of inquiry. “There were two of us. The doctor was here picking out the shot, that 's all. He 's gone. It's all right. Wait here and I'll get a light.” The flame in her lantern suddenly ended its feeble life.
She stood inside his doorway and heard him shuffle across the floor in search of the lamps.
“Dark as Egypt, eh?” he called out from the opposite side of the room.
“Not as dark as the forest, Mr. Shaw.”
“Good heavens, what a time you must have had. All alone, were you?”
“Of course. I was not eloping.”
“I beg your pardon.”
“Where were you sitting when I came up?”
“Here—in the dark. I was waiting for the storm to come and dozed away, I daresay. I love a storm, don't you?”
“Yes, if I 'm indoors. Ah!” He had struck a match and was lighting the wick of a lamp beside the huge fireplace. “I suppose you think I 'm perfectly crazy. I 'm horrid.”
“Not at all. Sit down here on the couch, please. More cheerful, eh? Good Lord, listen to the wind. You got here just in time. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'll have Mrs. Ulrich down in a minute. She'll take good care of you. And I 'll make you a nice hot drink, too. You need it.” In the door of the big living-room he turned to her, a look of extreme doubt in his eyes. “By Jove, I bet Idowake up. It can't be true.” She laughed plaintively and shook her head in humble self-abasement. “Don't be lonesome. I'll be back in a minute.”
“Don't hurry,” she murmured apologetically. Then she settled back limply in the wide couch and inspected the room, his footsteps noisily clattering down the long hallway to the left. She saw, with some misgiving, that it was purely a man's habitation. Shaw doubtless had built and furnished the big cottage without woman as a consideration. The room was large, comfortable, solid; there was not a suggestion of femininity in, it—high or low—except the general air of cleanliness. The furniture was rough-hewn and built for use, not ornamentation; the walls were hung with English prints, antlers, mementoes of the hunt and the field of sport; the floor was covered with skins and great “carpet rag” rugs. The whole aspect was so distinctly mannish that her heart fluttered ridiculously in its loneliness. Her cogitations were running seriously toward riot when he came hurriedly down the hall and into her presence.
“She'll be down presently. In fact, so will the cook and the housemaid. Gad, Miss Drake, they were so afraid of the storm that all of them piled into Mrs. Ulrich's room. I wonder at your courage in facing the symptoms outdoors. Now, I'll fix you a drink. Take off your hat—be comfortable. Cigarette? Good! Here's my sideboard. See? It's a nuisance, this having only one arm in commission; affects my style as a barkeep. Don't stir; I'll be able—”
“Let me help you. I mean, please don't go to so much trouble. Really I want nothing but a place to sleep to-night. This couch will do—honestly. And some one to call me at daybreak, so that I may be on my way.” He looked at her and laughed quizzically. “Oh, I'm in earnest, Mr. Shaw, I would not have stopped here if it had n't been tor the storm.”
“Come, now, Miss Drake, you spoil the fairy tale. Youdidintend to come here. It was the only place for you to go—and I'm glad of it. My only regret is that the house is n't filled with chaperons.”
“Why?” she demanded with a guilty start.
“Because I could then say to you all the things that are in my heart—aye, that are almost bursting from my lips. I—I can't say them now, you know,” he said, and she understood his delicacy. For some minutes she sat in silence watching him as he clumsily mixed the drinks and put the water over the alcohol blaze. Suddenly he turned to her with something like alarm in his voice. “By George, you don't suppose they 'll pursue you?”
“Oh, would n't that be jolly? It would be like the real story-book—the fairy and the ogres and all that. But,” dubiously, “I'm sorely afraid they consider me rubbish. Still—” looking up encouragingly—“my brother would try to find me if he—if he knew that I was gone.”
To her surprise, he whistled softly and permitted a frown of anxiety to creep over his face. “I had n't thought of that,” he observed reflectively. Then he seemed to throw off the momentary symptoms of uneasiness, adding, with a laugh: “I daresay nothing will happen. The storm would put a stop to all idea of pursuit.”
“Let them pursue,” she said, a stubborn light in her eyes. “I am my own mistress, Mr. Shaw. They can't take me, willy nilly, as if I were a child, you know.”
0082
“That's quite true. You don't understand,” he said slowly, his back to her.
“You mean the law? Is it different from ours?”
“Not that. The—er—situation. You see, they might think it a trifle odd if they found you here—with me. Don't you understand?” He turned to her with a very serious expression. She started and sat bolt upright to stare at him comprehensively.
“You mean—it—it isn't quite—er—”
“Regular, perhaps,” he supplied. “Please keep your seat! I'm not the censor; I'm not even an opinion. Believe me, Miss Drake, my only thought was and is for your good.”
“I see. They would believe evil of me if they knew I had come to you,” she mused, turning quite cold.
“I know the kind of people your sister-in-law has at her place, Miss Drake. Their sort can see but one motive in anything. You know them, too, I daresay.”
“Yes, I know them,” she said uneasily. “Good heavens, what a fool I've been,” she added, starting to her feet. “I might have known they 'll say all sorts of terrible things. They must not find me here. Mr. Shaw, I'm—I am so ashamed—I wonder what you are thinking of me.” Her lip trembled and there was such a pleading look in her dark eyes that he controlled himself with difficulty. It was only by imposing the severest restraint upon his susceptibilities that he was able to approach her calmly.
“I can't tell you now—not here—what I am thinking. It is n't the place. Maybe—maybe you can read my thought. Please—Miss Drake. Look up, please. Can't you read—oh, there now—I beg your pardon! You come to me for protection and I—well, don't be too hard on me just yet. I'll find the time and place to tell you.” He drew away almost as his hand was ready to clasp hers—all because her sweet eyes met his trustingly—lovingly.
“Just now I am a poor little reprobate,” she sighed ever so miserably. “You are very good. I'll not forget.”
“I 'll not permit you to forget,” he said eagerly.
“Is n't the housekeeper a long time in coming?” she asked quickly. He laughed contentedly.
“We've no reason to worry about her. It 's the pursuers from Bazelhurst that should trouble us. Won't you tell me the whole story?” And she told him everything, sitting there beside him with a hot drink in her hand and a growing shame in her heart. It was dawning upon her with alarming force that she was exposing a hitherto unknown incentive. It was not a comfortable awakening. “And you champion me to that extent?” he cried joyously. She nodded bravely and went on.
“So here I am,” she said in conclusion. “I really could not have walked to Ridgely to-night, could I?”
“I should say not.”
“And there was really nowhere else to come but here?” dubiously.
“See that light over there—up the mountain?” he asked, leading her to a window. “Old man Grimes and his wife live up there. They keep a light burning all night to scare Renwood's ghost away. By Jove, the storm will be upon us in a minute. I thought it had blown around us.” The roll of thunder came up the valley. “Thank heaven, you 're safe indoors. Let them pursue if they like. I 'll hide you if they come, and the servants are close-mouthed.”
“I don't like the way you put it, Mr. Shaw.”
“Hullo, hullo—the house,” came a shout from the wind-ridden night outside. Two hearts inside stopped beating for a second or two. She caught her breath sharply as she clasped his arm.
“They are after me!” she gasped.
“They must not find you here. Really, Miss Drake, I mean it. They would n't understand. Come with me. Go down this hall quickly. It leads to the garden back of the house. There's a gun-room at the end of the hall. Go in there, to your right. Here, take this! It's an electric saddle-lantern. I 'll head these fellows off. They shan't find you. Don't be alarmed.”
She sped down the narrow hall and he, taking time to slip into a long dressing-coat, stepped out upon the porch in response to the now prolonged and impatient shouts.
“Who 's there?” he shouted. The light from the windows revealed several horsemen in the roadway.
“Friends,” came back through the wind. “Let us in out of the storm. It's a terror.”
“I don't know you.” There was a shout of laughter and some profanity.
“Oh, yes you do, Mr. Shaw. Open up and let us in. It's Dave Rank and Ed Hunter. We can't make the cabin before the rain.” Shaw could see their faces now and then by the flashes of lightning and he recognized the two woodsmen, who doubtless had been visiting sweethearts up toward Ridgely.
“Take your horses to the stable, boys, and come in,” he called, laughing heartily. Then he hurried off to the gun-room. He passed Mrs. Ulrich coming downstairs yawning prodigiously; he called to her to wait for him in the library.
There was no one in the gun-room; the door leading to the back porch was open.
With an exclamation he leaped outside and looked about him.
“Good heavens!” he cried, staggering back.
Faroffin the night, a hundred yards or more up the road, leading to Grimes' cabin he saw the wobbling, uncertain flicker of a light wending its way like a will-o'-the-wisp through the night. Without a moment's hesitation and with something strangely like an oath, he rushed into the house, almost upsetting the housekeeper in his haste.
“Visitors outside. Make 'em comfortable. Back soon,” he jerked out as he changed his coat with small respect for his injured arm. Then he clutched a couple of raincoats from the rack and flew out of the back door like a man suddenly gone mad.
The impulse which drove Penelope out for the second time that night may be readily appreciated. Its foundation was fear; its subordinate emotions were shame, self-pity and consciousness of her real feeling toward the man of the house. The true spirit of womanhood revolted with its usual waywardness.
She was flying down the stony road, some distance from the cottage, in the very face of the coming tornado, her heart beating like a trip-hammer, her eyes bent on the little light up the mountain-side, before it occurred to her that this last flight was not only senseless but perilous. She even laughed at herself for a fool as she recalled the tell-tale handbag on the porch and the damning presence of a Bazelhurst lantern in the hallway.
The storm which had been raging farther down the valley was at last whirling up to the hill-tops, long delayed as if in gleeful anticipation of catching her alone and unprotected. The little electric saddle-lamp that she carried gave out a feeble glow, scarce opening the way in the darkness more than ten feet ahead. Rough and irksome was the road, most stubborn the wall of wind. The second threat of the storm was more terrifying than the first; at any instant it was likely to break forth in all its slashing fury—and she knew not whither she went.
Even as she lost heart and was ready to turn wildly back in an effort to reach Shaw's home before the deluge, the lightning flashes revealed to her the presence of a dwelling just off the road not two hundred feet ahead. She stumbled forward, crying like a frightened child. There were no lights. The house looked dark, bleak, unfriendly. Farther up the hillside still gleamed the little light that was meant to keep Renwood's ghost from disturbing the slumbers of old man Grimes and his wife. She could not reach that light, that much she knew. Her feet were like hundredweights, her limbs almost devoid of power; Grimes' hut appeared to be a couple of miles away.
With a last, breathless effort, she turned off the road and floundered through weeds and brush until she came to what proved to be the rear of the darkened house. Long, low, rangy it reached off into the shadows, chilling in its loneliness. There was no time left for her to climb the flight of steps and pound on the back door. The rain was swishing in the trees with a hiss that forbade delay.
She threw herself, panting and terror-stricken, into the cave-like opening under the porch, her knees giving way after the supreme effort. The great storm broke as she crouched far back against the wall; her hands over her ears, her eyes tightly closed. She was safe from wind and rain, but not from the sounds of that awful conflict. The lantern lay at her feet, sending its ray out into the storm with the senseless fidelity of a beacon light.
“Penelope!” came a voice through the storm, and a second later a man plunged into the recess, crashing against the wall beside her. Something told her who it was, even before he dropped beside her and threw his strong arm about her shoulders. The sound of the storm died away as she buried her face on his shoulder and shivered so mightily that he was alarmed. With her face burning, her blood tingling, she lay there and wondered if the throbbing of her heart were not about to kill her.
He was crying something into her ear—wild, incoherent words that seemed to have the power to quiet the storm. And she was responding—she knew that eager words were falling from her lips, but she never knew what they were—responding with a fervour that was overwhelming her with joy. Lips met again and again and there was no thought of the night, of the feud, the escapade, the Renwood ghost—or of aught save the two warm living human bodies that had found each other.
The storm, swerving with the capricious mountain winds, suddenly swept their refuge with sheets of water. Randolph Shaw threw the raincoats over his companion and both laughed hysterically at their plight, suddenly remembered.
“We can't stay here,” he shouted.
“We can't go out into it,” she cried.
“Where are we?”
“Renwood's,” he called back. Their position was untenable. He was drenched; the raincoats protected her as she crouched back into the most remote corner. Looking about, he discovered a small door leading to the cellar. It opened the instant he touched the latch. “Come, quick,” he cried, lifting her to her feet. “In here—stoop! I have the light. This is the cellar. I'll have to break down a door leading to the upper part of the house, but that will not be difficult. Here's an axe or two. Good Lord, I'm soaked!”
“Whe—where are we going?” she gasped, as he drew her across the earthern floor.
“Upstairs. It's comfortable up there.” They were at the foot of the narrow stairway. She held back.
“Never! It's the—the haunted house! I can't—Randolph.”
“Pooh! Don't be afraid. I'm with you, dearest.”
“I know,” she gulped, “only one arm. Oh, I can't!”
“It's all nonsense about ghosts. I've slept here twenty times, Penelope. People have seen my light and my shadow, that 's all. I'm a pretty substantial ghost.”
“Oh, dear! What a disappointment. And there are no spooks? Not even Mrs. Renwood?”
“Of course she may come back, dear, but you'd hardly expect a respectable lady spook to visit the place with me stopping here. Even ghosts have regard for conventionalities. Shecould n't—”
“How much more respectable than I,” Penelope murmured plaintively.
“Forgive me,” he implored. “I would—only you aresowet.”
The door above was locked, but Shaw swung the axe so vigorously that any but a very strong-nerved ghost must have been frightened to death once more.
“It's my house, you know,” he explained from the top step. “There we are! Come up, Penelope. The fort is yours.”
She followed him into the hall above. In silence they walked along the bare floors through empty rooms until at last he opened a door in what proved to be the left wing. To her surprise, this room was comfortably furnished. There were ashes in the big fireplace and there were lamps which had been used recently—for they were filled with oil.
“Here's where I read sometimes,” he explained. “I have slept on that couch. Last winter I came up here to hunt. My cottage wasn't finished, so I stayed here.
“I'll confess I've heard strange sounds—now, don't shiver! Once or twice I've been a bit nervous, but I'm still alive, you see.” He lighted the wicks in the two big lamps while she looked on with the chills creeping up and down her back. “I'll have a bully fire in the fireplace in just a minute.”
“Let me help you,” she suggested, coming quite close to him with uneasy glances over her shoulders.
Ten minutes later they were sitting before a roaring fire, quite content even though there was a suggestion of amazed ghosts lurking in the hallway behind them. No doubt old man Grimes and his wife, if they awoke in the course of the night, groaned deep prayers in response to the bright light from the windows of the haunted house. Shaw and Penelope smiled securely as they listened to the howling storm outside.
“Well, thisistrespassing,” she said, beaming a happy smile upon him.
“I shall be obliged to drive you out, alas,” he said reflectively. “Do you recall my vow? As long as you are a Bazelhurst, I must perforce eject you.”
“Not to-night!” she cried in mock dismay.
“But, as an alternative, you'll not be a Bazelhurst long,” he went on eagerly, suddenly taking her hands into his, forgetful of the wounded left. “I'm going to try trespassing myself. To-morrow I 'm going to see your brother. It 's regular, you know. I'm going to tell the head of your clan that you are coming over to Shaw, heart and hand.”
“Oh!” she exclaimed. “You—you—no, no! You must not do that!”
“But, my dear, youaregoing to marry me.”
“Yes—I—suppose so,” she murmured helplessly. “That is n't what I meant. I mean, it is n't necessary to ask Cecil. Ask me; I'll consent for him.”
Half an hour passed. Then he went to the window and looked out into the storm.
“Youmustlie down and get some sleep,” he insisted, coming back to her. “The storm's letting up, but we can't leave here for quite a while. I'll sit up and watch. I'm too happy to sleep.” She protested, but her heavy eyes were his allies. Soon he sat alone before the fire; she slept sound on the broad couch in the corner, a steamer rug across her knees. A contented smile curved his lips as he gazed reflectively into the flames. He was not thinking of Mrs. Renwood's amiable ghost.
How long she had been asleep, Penelope did not know. She awoke with a start, her flesh creeping. A nameless dread came over her; she felt that she was utterly alone and surrounded by horrors. It was a full minute—a sickening hour, it seemed—before she realized that she was in the room with the man she loved. Her frightened eyes caught sight of him lying back in the chair before the dying fire in the chimney place. The lights were low, the shadows gaunt and chill.
A terrified exclamation started to her lips. Her ears again caught the sound of some one moving in the house—some alien visitor. There was no mistaking the sound—the distant, sepulchral laugh and the shuffling of feet, almost at the edge of the couch it seemed.
“Randolph!” she whispered hoarsely. The man in the chair did not move. She threw off the blanket and came to a sitting posture on the side of the couch, her fingers clutching the covering with tense horror. Again the soft, rumbling laugh and the sound of footsteps on the stairway. Like a flash she sped across the room and clutched frantically at Randolph's shoulders. He awoke with an exclamation, staring bewildered into the horrified face above.
“The—the ghost!” she gasped, her eyes glued upon the hall door. He leaped to his feet and threw his arms about her.
“You've had a bad dream,” he said. “What a beast I was to fall asleep. Lord, you're frightened half out of your wits. Don't tremble so, dearest. There's no ghost. Every one knows—”
“Listen—listen!” she whispered. Together they stood motionless, almost breathless before the fire, the glow from which threw their shadows across the room to meet the mysterious invader.
“Good Lord,” he muttered, unwilling to believe his ears. “Thereissome one in the house. I 've—I've heard sounds here before, but not like these.” Distinctly to their startled ears came the low, subdued murmur of a human voice and then unmistakable moans from the very depth of the earth—from the grave, it seemed.
“Do you hear?” she whispered. “Oh, this dreadful place! Take me away, Randolph, dear,—”
“Don't be afraid,” he said, drawing her close. “There's nothing supernatural about those sounds. They come from lips as much alive as ours. I 'll investigate.” He grabbed the heavy poker from the chimney corner, and started toward the door. She followed close behind, his assurance restoring in a measure the courage that had temporarily deserted her.
In the hallway they paused to look out over the broad porch. The storm had died away, sighing its own requiem in the misty tree-tops. Dawn was not far away. A thick fog was rising to meet the first glance of day. In surprise Shaw looked at his watch, her face at his shoulder. It was after five o'clock.
“Ghosts turn in at midnight, dear,” he said with a cheerful smile. “They don't keep such hours as these.”
“But who can it be? There are no tramps in the mountains,” she protested, glancing over her shoulder apprehensively.
“Listen! By Jove, that voice came from the cellar.”
“And the lock is broken,” she exclaimed. “But how silly of me! Ghosts don't stop for locks.”
“I 'll drop the bolts just the same,” he said, as they hurried down the hallway. At the back stairs they stopped and listened for many minutes. Not a sound came up to them from below. Softly he closed the door and lowered two heavy bars into place. “If there's any one down there they probably think they've heard spooks trotting around up here.”
“Really, it's quite thrilling, isn't it?” she whispered, in her excitement.
“In any event, we're obliged to remain under cover until they depart,” he said thoughtfully. “We can't be seen here, dearest.”
“No,” she murmured, “not even though it isourhouse.”
They returned to the big room as softly as mice and he left her a moment later to close the heavy window shutters on the porch. When he returned there was a grim smile on his face and his voice shook a little as he spoke.
“I've heard the voices again. They came from the laundry, I think. The Renwoods were downright Yankees, Penelope; I will swear that these voices are amazingly English.”
THIS narrative has quite as much to do with the Bazelhurst side of the controversy as it has with Shaw's. It is therefore but fair that the heroic invasion by Lord Cecil should receive equal consideration from the historian. Shaw's conquest of one member of the force opposing him was scarcely the result of bravery; on the other hand Lord Cecil's dash into the enemy's country was the very acme of intrepidity. Shaw had victory fairly thrust upon him; Lord Bazelhurst had a thousand obstacles to overcome before he could even so much as stand face to face with the enemy. Hence the expedition that started off in the wake of the deserter deserves more than passing mention.
Down the drive and out into the mountain road clattered the three horsemen. Lady Bazelhurst, watching at the window casement, almost swooned with amazement at the sight of them. The capes of their mackintoshes seemed to flaunt a satirical farewell in her face; their owners, following the light of the carriage lamps, swept from view around a bend in the road.
His lordship had met the duke in the hall, some distance from that nobleman's room, and, without observing Barminster's apparent confusion, commanded him to join in the pursuit. Barminster explained that he was going to see how the cook was resting; however, he would go much farther to be of service to the runaway sister of his host.
“She's broken-hearted,” half sobbed the brother.
“Yes,” agreed the duke; “and what's a broken leg to a broken heart? Penelope's heart, at that. Demme, I can't find the cook's room, anyway.”
“It's in the servants' wing,” said Cecil, anxious to be off.
“To be sure. Stupid ass I am. I say, old chap, here's Deveaux's door. Let's rout him out. We'll need some one to hold the horses if we have to force our way into Shaw's house.”
“Good heaven, Randolph, go to him! He is hurt.”